The Beginning of the End
by White Feathered Mask
Summary: With every beginning there is end, and with every end there is a beginning. With the beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning- is it simply possible for these tributes to answer this paradox before their own untimely end?
1. ALLEGIANCES

**SUP. So I have all the tributes, or all the ones that I'm accepting—and I'm giving you a short list of allegiances. I used a template for the allegiances made by a friend of mine, and I HAVE HER GOD-SPEED PERMISSION SO DON'T HANG ME FOR TREASON, OKAY?**

**One more side note where I rave about my own stupidity. :P Two things.  
>One.) I was sending out replies to all of your tribute applications saying 'Oh, thanks, I have a lot planned for your charrie's—and while some of you got them, the others I accidently hit the site-preview button instead of the send button. -_- By the time I had figured out why my messages kept popping up in my next reply—I had already deleted it. So, I'm really sorry, I did send you all replies… but I can't now. I don't have the original message any more…<br>Two.) All bow down to my stupidity for putting the tribute grade next to the district number. It's very confusing! If I get your tribute's district wrong—please shoot me and tell me via. Review or PM. Very sorry. **

**With that said—ONWARD. I asked a very nice FF author to let me use her template for this chapter. All due credit to her. :) Another friend of mine who proof read it even recognized the format. Small world, eh?**

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><p><strong>ALLEGIANCES<strong>

*****Kaira Tivil **_(Kay-ra, Tive-ill)  
><em>From district one comes _Kaira Tivil_! She's a small girl with a willowy build and a sly smile on her pink lips; is only _seventeen_. She was created by _tye-dye eyes 191__._ Kaira possesses super-long platinum blond hair and narrowed green eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''3', and weigh 116—but behind that achingly confident smirk is a mind clever enough to dupe all in her path.

*****Onyx Emberle **_(On-ex, Ember-lee)  
><em>From district one comes _Onyx Emberle_! He's a tall guy with a stocky build and a piercing gaze; is only _eighteen_. He was created by _Lady Chosa__._ Onyx possesses a short dark brown hair, almost black, and pale blue eyes—but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''3', and weigh 200—but behind those hard muscles and neutral gaze is a smirk and a snap reply off mind-games.

*********Nightlock True**_(Night-lock, True)  
><em>From district two comes _Nightlock True_! She's a tall girl with a stocky build and eyes alighted with an occasional cold fury; is only _seventeen_. She was created by _Mockingjay 110._ Lock possesses blue black hair and genetically deformed indigo eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''9', and weigh 145—but behind her seemingly blind rage and an average grip on a sword is a poisonous glare and darts from behind.

*********Perseus Baltreman **_(Per-see-us, Bal-tray-man)  
><em>From district two comes _Perseus Baltreman_! He's a very tall guy with a stocky build and tan skin; is only _eighteen_. He was created by _Lupus Overkill._ Perseus possesses shaggy black hair and dark brown eyes— but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''6', and weigh 240—but behind those emotionless eyes, he possesses mind full of technique for all weapons.

*****Britney Falace**_(Brit-nee, Fal-ace)  
><em>From district three comes _Britney Falace!_ She's a tall, willowy girl with a slightly naïve personality; is only _sixteen_. She was created by _Funny-Bunny-lover__._ Britney possesses long blond hair and electric green eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''7', and weigh 119—but behind those innocent eyes is a willingness to survive and a quite tough outlook on life.

*****Binar Nietens**_(Bine-are, Ni-tens)  
><em>From district three comes _Binar Nietens_! He's a tall guy with a lean build and cautious eyes; is only _fifteen_. He was created by _Lupus Overkill__._ Binar possesses curly brown hair and slate blue eyes— but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''4', and weigh 210—but behind those withdrawn eyes is a fierce loyalty and strength few possess.

*********Brooke Cascaden**_ (Brooke, Cas-cad-en)__  
><em>From district four comes _Brooke Cascaden_! She's a tall girl with a skinny build and a proud glint in her eyes; is only _sixteen_. She was created by _deary._ Brooke possesses big curls, black, and sea-green eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''8', and weigh 119—but her tense demeanor is a truly brave and prideful heart.

****Marcus Scipio **_(Mar-cuss, Ski-p-o)  
><em>From district four comes _Marcus Scipio_! He's an averagely heighted guy with a broad build and tan skin; is only _seventeen_. He was created by _no one._ Marcus possesses shaggy black hair and laughing brown eyes— but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 5''6', and weigh 132—but behind those jokes and uncareer like outlook, he possesses a calculating mind that knows how to get things done with the least amount of cost.

**Melissa Paws** _(Mel-ih-sa, Paws)  
><em>From district five comes _Melissa Paws!_ She's an averagely heighted girl with a fragile air about her; is only _seventeen_. She was created by _no one._ Melissa possesses poufy brown hair and wide hazel eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''6, and weigh 115—but behind that scared and fragile mind is a girl that will go out with claws flashing.

*****Pendulum Scenes** (Pen-de-lum, Scenes)  
>From district five comes <em>Pendulum Scenes!<em> He's a short guy with a detached look and pale skin; is only _fourteen_. He was created by _orTherefore._ Pendulum possesses messy ash-blond hair and dark eyes— but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 5''3', and weigh 90—but behind that arrogant glimmer in his eyes, he mind that few match.

****Lynn Claws** _(Lin, Claws)  
><em>From district six comes _Lynn Claws!_ She's a short girl with a mysterious but friendly look about her; is only _sixteen_. She was created by _no one._ Lynn possesses long black hair and dark blue eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''4, and weigh 115—but behind calm and friendly demeanor is a quick intelligence and a hidden knife.

********* Rasha Kane **(Rash-a, Az-ray-l)  
>From district six comes <em>Rasha Kane!<em> He's a tall guy with a limber look and a serious personality; is only _fourteen_. He was created by _Katherine's Sue Slayer._ Rasha possesses dark brown hair and equally brown eyes— but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 5''8', and weigh 125—but behind that skinny build and serious attitude is a style of adaptively and sharp eyes that will no doubt help him in the arena.

*****Cyprus Fawn **_(Sigh-prus, Fah-awn)_**  
><strong>From district seven comes _Cyprus Fawn!_ She's an averagely heighted girl with a contrastive personality; is only _seventeen_. She was created by _hollowedoutheart._ Cyprus possesses layered brown hair and emerald green eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''5, and weigh 125—but behind that friendly and lean muscle is a girl ruled by her heart, not her head.

*****Arden Wade** _(Are-den, Wade)_**  
><strong>From district seven comes _Arden Wade__!_ He's a tall guy with an average build and broad shoulders; is only _seventeen_. He was created by _Syeira-la__._ Arden possesses shaggy black hair and green eyes—but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''2', and weigh 145—but behind his irritable attitude and otherwise nonchalant glance is a street smart guy with a loyal heart.

*****Calico Spindle** _(Kal-ih-co, Spin-del)  
><em>From district eight comes _Calico Spindle!_ She's an averagely heighted girl with wide eyes; is only _thirteen_. She was created by _Lady Chosa._ Calico possesses thick brown hair and warm brown eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''4, and weigh 110—but behind her innocent appearance is a will to survive and a quick adapting mind.

*****Smith Jones** _(Smith, Jones)  
><em>From district eight comes _Smith Jones!_ He's a tall guy with a sly look and eyes that suggest he knows more than you; is only _sixteen_. He was created by _labonath151__._ Smith possesses dark brown hair and dark brown eyes—but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''3', and weigh 157—but behind those calculating eyes is a destructive personality that plans BIG.

*****Arena Tompson**_ (A-rean-a, Tomp-son)  
><em>From district nine comes _Arena Tompson!_ She's an averagely heighted girl with a loveable personality; is only _fourteen_. She was created by _loveforwriting._ Arena possesses curly dirty-blond and bright blue eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''1, and weigh 111—but behind her young face and seemingly fragile body are quick feet and sheathed arrows.

****Roe Johnson **_(Ro, John-sun)  
><em>From district nine comes _Roe Johnson!_ He's a tall guy with a lopsided grin and kind eyes; is only _eighteen_. He was created by _no one._ Roe possesses shaggy black hair and dark green eyes—but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''3', and weigh 145—but behind his lanky and carefree demeanor is a thoughtful mind that can make snap split second decisions.

**Kimberly Lockhart **_(Kim-bur-lee, Lock-heart)_**  
><strong>From district ten comes _Kimberly Lockhart!_ She's an averagely heighted girl with a proud personality; is only _fifteen_. She was created by _no one._ Kimberly possesses red hair that circles into waves and light blue eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''5, and weigh 115—but behind that friendly and proud face is a personality of steel and nerves.

****Rick Kane** _(Rick, Cane)  
><em>From district ten comes _Rick Kane!_ He's an averagely heighted guy with a carefree aura; is only _eighteen_. He was created by _no one._ Rick possesses shaggy black hair and dark grey eyes—but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''1', and weigh 167—but behind his quiet and seemingly arrogant personality is a hidden personality and knowledge beyond his years.

*********Arria Mitsha**_(Air-ea, Mit-sha)  
><em>From district eleven comes _Arria Mitsha!_ She's a short girl with sly look in her eyes; is only _sixteen_.  
>She was created by <em>Pi Eaterz.<em> Arria possesses short, curly, dark-brown hair—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''3, and weigh 98—but behind the mistrust in her eyes is a girl with a ton of strength and a knife that will no doubtedly end up in your back.

*********Caligula Fredricks**_(Cali-gule-a, Fred-ricks)  
><em>From district eleven comes _Caligula Fredricks!_ He's a very tall guy with a stocky build and calloused hands; is only _eighteen_. He was created by _3rdBase101._ Caligula possesses light brown hair and dark brown eyes—but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 6''5, and weigh 187—but behind his huge appearance and generally quiet personality, is hard muscle and a mind that knows what to do and when to do it.

*********Laurallin Marx** _(Laur-ral-lin Mar-cks)  
><em>From district twelve comes _Laurallin Marx!_ She's an averagely heighted girl with a shy personality; is only _eighteen_. She was created by _EmmaMellark97._ Laurallin possesses straight black hair and dull blue eyes—but don't let her appearance fool you! She may be 5''4, and weigh 115—but behind her trusting and sensitive attitude is an ability to blend into the background, something that may be very useful.

**Belial Livius **_(Bel-e-ial, Live-e-us)  
><em>From district twelve comes _Belial Livius!_ He's an averagely heighted guy with a scrappy look and freckled skin; is only _sixteen_. He was created by _no one._ Belial possesses messy dirty-blond hair and dark brown eyes— but don't let his appearance fool you! He may be 5''4', and weigh 154—but behind that greedy glimmer in his eyes, he possesses fingers that are quick and nimble and slip just about anything into his pocket.

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><p><strong>***<strong>_**Main Character  
>**Secondary Character<strong>_

_Tribute Template created by Running-Fleeing Voltage! Ask for her permission before using this tribute layout or she'll bite off your head!_

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><p><strong>Eherm. So. With this out of the way, WHOSE EXCITED FOR THE GAMES CAUSE I CERTAINLY AM! THIS WILL BE EPIC BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS~ and what's this? A twist at the end? Says WHO? Remember, I look on with favor the tribute's whose creators review frequently. :3<strong>

Side notes: If I messed up anything about your character, including the pronunciation of their name(s), please tell me. I'll fix it. :3 Also, applogies to the owner of Brooke. xP I accidently deleted your PM and couldn't remember your name. If whoever owns Brooke could send me PM or review, claiming her, that would be great. :)

**Yay! I think I've explained all my mistakes. I hope you guys like my story to come—I predict a chapter in a week or so. See you all soon!**

**-White**


	2. Prologue

**I broke down and decided to post the prologue the same night as starting the story. I'm having a four day weekend, so the idea and time is flowing like milk and honey. Mmmmhm… ;) Expect more this weekend! ****Another side note to 'I don't have an account sry': I would be glad to accept your character if you use the proper format—because otherwise I am left with many questions. You can find the application on my profile page, and I'll still accept if you hurry.**

**Okay! With that out of the way, I am excited to bring you the first chapter of 'The Beginning of the End!' Anyone else excited? –silence- Yeah, I heard from a kind reviewer that I won't be able to see your reviews until I reach chapter four because I deleted the SYOT form to prevent mod hassle. -_- Well. Hopefully I can keep up the motivation without you people's lovely words of comfort. **

**Pweew. With that long Author Note—I'm ready! Requests for autographs and general worshipping is appreciated ;) as well as some hardcore criticism. I wish to improve. If I'm portraying your character wrong by a long shot—just let me know! I'll see what I can do. And without further delay, I present to you the prologue of the…**

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><p><strong><em>:::::::::::::::::<em>**

**The Beginning of the End.**

_The 95th Hunger Games_

**::::::::::::::::**

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><p>The Beginning of the End.<p>

Funny thing to say, isn't it?

It's a paradox, you see.

You know what a paradox is, don't you? It's a question with no definite answer that we mere mortals can see.

Maybe someone knows the answer.

But I certainly don't.

The Beginning of the End.

Who even came up with that statement?

Someone, I bet, who was trying to find the words to some emotion they were feeling.

Maybe that's how all of Panem felt when the Hunger Games were announced. Well, the Capitolites at least.

Maybe that's how the first tribute felt, the first dying tribute, as their guts were spilled out before them on the ground.

Heck—I don't even know _how_ they died. They could've committed suicide, or jumped off their plate before the sixty seconds were up. Maybe someone, an ally, stabbed them in the back when they weren't looking. Maybe they starved, or ate something poisonous.

Maybe they died in someone's arms.

A loved one.

Maybe even their brother—or sister.

Best friend?

Maybe, the beginning of the end was how Katniss felt as she watched her district blow up in front of her—watched as the rubble flew out from the explosion, and watched as the shards of glass and metal pierced her skin.

And she died like her little ally from her own games.

So close to winning this war against the capitol.

Sigh.

The Beginning of the End.

Can someone please answer this paradox for me?

How can there be a start, to something that is ending?

Sure, you can try to answer it. You know, when your name was reaped for these games, the ninety-fifth games, you thought that it was the beginning—of the end—of your life.

But that's an expression, not the truth.

There _is_ no beginning of the end—not that we can wrap our brains around.

The end happens in one instant.

Not a minute.

Not a second.

An instant.

An instant so small that there isn't even a name for it—just an infinite number in time that marked the end of something, someone, somewhere.

Can we pinpoint an instant of an instant?

God, I'm giving myself a headache.

The point is—can we give a beginning to something, that's already over?

The End?

I don't think so.

But for me, for nearly all of the tributes of the Hunger Games, it certainly feels like it.

It certainly feels like the beginning,

of the undisputed,

undeniable,

unavoidable,

_end._

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><p><strong>:3<strong>

**-White**


	3. There is no hope,

**Chapter one**

**Well, at last we get past my unnecessary paradoxical prologue narrated by a depressed and/or confused tribute which may or may not be from these games—yet seems to be able to talk in both past and present?**

**WILL THE MADNESS EVER END?**

**;) All joking aside—Here's the next chapter. I hope you weren't too confused by the last chapter, and I very well know my rambling just may have confused you/brought things to attention that you didn't even notice. xD ONWARD!**

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><p><em><strong>:::::::::::::::::<strong>_

**Chapter One.  
><strong>  
><em>"<em>_A truly great person is the one who gives you a chance.__"_

**::::::::::::::::**

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><p><strong>Pendulum Scene—<strong>_District Five_

The lab was surprisingly bright. It was nearing mid-day and the large, almost greenhouse styled, and the sloped ceiling was letting in light by the bucket-full. However, it was a time of day thing. The ceiling of the observatory was only half-split by the windowed ceiling with near white steel—the other half was covered in a slanted, pale, concrete ceiling. The windowed side slid down it's half of the room, reaching the end of the slanted ceiling and dropping down the wall to the ground. In the morning, and into the early afternoon—the light shone freely through the windows—blessing all inside with a clear white light. At night, however, the room was plunged into a deep blackness—only the prominent desert stars of District Five to light the room.

Well, that—and the dim electric lights wired from the ceiling.

Lucky for the only person in the room—it was late morning, and the lab was surprisingly bright. They remained hunched over the long steel table, reaching over to the left and blankly scribbling something on a pad of paper to their left. They immediately removed their hands from the pencil, letting it fall and roll back and forth on the primitive pad—and reached over and cast a glance at the very large computer in front of them.

"Begin dictation," The person said, voice appearing masculine, but young. "Date: seven dot one dot forty-three. Time," A brief pause, "11:23 am. Heading: Subject Twenty-Three under the mutated variation of cellular combination of Canis lupus and Urocyon cinereoargenteus."

_Click. Click._

The figure visibly flinched, his face twisting in utter annoyance struggling to keep the flow of his work moving—determined not to become distracted by the sound. His voice raised in volume slightly, standing up and moving closer to the computer screen—palms heavily supported on the table.

_Click. Click. Click. Click._

"…The subject showed rapid growth and adapted to both extreme heat and cold—only perishing beyond the ranges of 145.3 Celsius and negative 85.72 Celsius—"

_Click. Click. Click._

"—and seems to be capable both in water and on dry land."

Click.

"Weaknesses include numerous vital organs—"

_Click_.

"—low intelligence—"

_Click_.

"—and low fertility rates—"

_Cli_—

"Computer—pause Dictation," The figure clipped suddenly, annoyance dominating his words—lifting his head up and glaring in the direction of two twin steel doors at the end of the room. He paused for a moment, before sighing and glancing back down to his keyboard—punching in a few seemingly random keys before saying, "What is it now, _Doctor_?"

There came a loud and hearty laugh from the direction of the double doors. A man appeared from around the corner—a smile playing at his lips, face lining with comical aging wrinkles. He had bushy gray hair, slightly balding around the edges—and he seemed out of place in this completely sterile environment with boots lined with sand, only contrasted by his huge long white lab-coat. "Surely," The man said in a deep voice, "I am not bothering you, Mr. Pendulum? I had not said a word upon entering your territory."

The figure, presumably Mr. Pendulum, sighed heavily—obviously not amused as he shook his head slightly and let his eyebrows rise and fall in a shrug of annoyance. "You wear very _loud_ shoes, Doctor."

"Do I?" Mused the man, giving a fleeting glance towards his boots, twisting his heel up off the ground as if to examine it better. "And they were bothering you?"

"The sound quality of this computer is very good," Pendulum muttered, sitting down his black chair and pushing his feet to making the rolling chair slide dramatically down to the end of the table (where he promptly began sorting through papers. "Almost every sound is made noticeable when you replay a recording. Including the sound of _footsteps_. And I, personally, have had the experience of trying to listen to dictations with excess background noise."

"Dictations?" The older man said in exasperation, moving forward once again with a more rapid clicking on the tile. "Surely you aren't working on that idiotic project on," his voice faltered slightly, "_reaping_ day?"

"First off," Pendulum retorted, not lifting his eyes from his papers—shuffling them all the more rapidly, "my project is _not_ idiotic. It's part of my quota for this month and if I finish it now, then I have the rest of the month to work on what I please. Secondly—I see no reason to worry about reaping day. The chances of me being carted off the Capitol are practically nonexistent. They _need_ me here, I'm their best researcher!"

"Of course you are," The Doctor said dryly, not bothering to mention that Pendulum was only fourteen and had only been working here for a year. "But what makes you sure that the Reapings aren't just random?"

"Random?" The boy responded—the idea to him so ridiculous that he actually raised his head and stared at the Doctor in disbelief. "When have you once seen a Peacekeeper's Daughter—or Mayor's son reaped for the games?"

"That is beside the point," The Doctor muttered, moving forward to lean against the metal table—Pendulum rolling away once again in his chair and furiously pounding on the keyboard for several seconds. "The point is: there is a chance you will be reaped, boy, and you best go home to your family and spend time with them in case it's your last!"

Pendulum ignored his plea, "The odds, even without the Capitol on my side are approximately are 1 in 811.5, respectively simplified. Very, very—small."

The Doctor moved quickly, boot reaching forward and locking the boy's chair wheels up as they attempted to slide once again to the other side of the table. Swirling the chair around so it was facing him, the older man leaned down and stared right into Pendulum's eyes—pale blue on black.

"Go home, Pendulum," The doctor said wearily, straightening up and taking several steps back. He turned on his heel, not looking back as he strode over to the double steel doors. "Spend time with your family."

It wasn't until the Doctor was gone that Pendulum moved. Leaning back in his chair, he ran a hand back through his messy ash-blond hair—sighing as he glanced once at the door, and once at the bleeping computer screen. A side glance out of the corner of his eye, over to the only clock in the entire builidng—once Pendulum actually built himself—it read _11:53 _in large, black, flashing letters.

Then, in a final mutter to himself, Pendulum rolled over to the computer and said, "Computer—Resume Dictation."

_I have two hours. There will be time for my family after I've finished this project._

How wrong he was.

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><p><strong>Smith Jones—<strong>_District Eight_

Smith stared beadily down at his watch—eyes narrowed, as if protecting themselves from the sun—even though it was comfortably cool and dark where he was standing. Back to the tall brick walls of the factory—Smith hardly blinked as the little minute hand on his ancient watched clicked forward a notch.

_11:54._

Suppressing a growl in the back of his throat, Smith plopped down onto the cold, his leg hurting like crazy, concrete floor. The kid was late. Almost ten minutes late—something was wrong. Either the lucky little thing had finally gotten caught, or he was merely taking his sweet time. Propping his knees up, Smith crossed his arms and propped them up ontop of his vertical knees, scowling slightly. The reaping was going to start soon, a little over an hour from now—and last year a kid got whipped for being a mere minute late. No way was Smith going to let that happen to him—District Eight was huge, and it wasn't like Smith could just hop in his car (his nonexistent one, mind you) and drive there. Walking would take long enough as it did—not to mention Smith limped, not walked.

Sighing, and giving one last glance around the rather suspiciously dark alley—Smith stood, shuffling his feet and kicking up the dust with one of his feet, awkwardly supporting himself on his left leg. However, before he could turn to leave—a small hand gripped him from behind, latching onto his elbow. Tensing, but more annoyed then startled—Smith turned giving a only half menacing glare to the small twig of a kid behind him.

"What took you so long?" Smith asked, losing the hard edge he wanted to have with a weary relieved tone.

The boy smiled nervously, obviously thinking that Smith should have been furious, hoping from one foot to the other—brown locks falling momentarily over his wide eyes. He was no more than thirteen, though Smith had never bothered to ask—it was usually all business—the last person you'd expect to be a master thief. "I got caught up by Peacekeeper Johnson's house—his dog can really get pour on speed when it wants too—it can hobble surprisingly fast."

Smith smiled, despite himself, and they both quickly sat down—both giving nonchalant glances around the area to make sure they were alone. "So, Mobi, what's the haul for today? I did four of your shifts this week so you owe me—"

"—two loaves of bread and a pound of some sort of meat," the boy finished, dumping his pack on the ground—strangely shaped packages wrapped in some sort of light brown paper tumbling out. Each had some sort of seemingly random number scrawled on in a neat permanent marker. Smith had no idea what they meant, but Mobi seemed to know—quickly tossing several of the packages back into the plain black bag, his eyes flickering side to side as he searched.

Mobi was one of the most important people of District Eight. You wouldn't even guess, seeing him walk down the street. He went to school, got average grades, had an average sized family, had an average amount of friends—he even looked rather average. Other than his wide eyes and rather small persona, Mobi was normal from an outsider's look.

But Mobi was a thief. In fact, he was one of the only things keeping a good 30% of District Eight alive. He was sort of a… Robin Hood, if you will. District Eight was one of the largest Districts in Panem. It was so large—it took you a good five minutes to drive from end to end, without traffic, or turning. Mobi would go around, and steal food from the richer people in the District—the Breadmakers, the candy-shops, the peacekeepers, and the joint of mayors in the district. The brilliant part of it was that he never got caught—only stole enough to go unnoticed, and he had this hugely complex system of who to steal from, and when to do it.

About a year ago though, Mobi got caught. Not long enough to get jailed or (worse) executed—but long enough for the head of the factory management to get a good look at him. Mobi has about five people on the Peacekeeper squad _dedicated solely_ to catching him. Mobi couldn't go to work at his shift at the factories anymore. But that's his business now, the thing that keeps people from starving if they know where to look. Mobi will bring you food, if you do a shift (or shifts) for him at the factory. It keeps attention from himself for not going to work, and people get fed. Luckily, you can easily do someone else's shift if you put your mind to it, there are so many people there it's nearly impossible to recognize one person from the other. Mobi and Smith have a good business going on. A few times a week, Smith does one of Mobi's shifts—and at the end of that week Mobi pays Smith back in food. Mobi gets to slip below the radar, and Smith's family get to keep their stomachs full.

"Smith," Mobi said warily, still sorting rapidly.

_Oh no._ "Yes?"

The boy paused for a moment, hand lingering on one package—before scooping it up and adding it to a small pile with two other packages. "I could only get you a ½ a pound of meat this week."

Smith groaned, running his hand back through black hair, closing his eyes momentarily and letting his head fall back for a second. "Really? Mobi, my family lives _on _this stuff—"

"—I know, I know—"

"—I did my share, what happened this time?"

A pause, Mobi averting his eyes guiltily—blindly picking up one of the packages and handing it forward into Smith's waiting hands. "I already robbed the west wing butcher last week—for a full, good, tenderloin. I couldn't do it so close again, I have to give them time or they get suspicious!"

The older boy sighed, running his hand down his weary face—pulling lightly at the skin. "Just… just bring a pound and a half next week. And make it bacon."

Mobi visibly relaxed—no doubt knowing exactly when and how to get this supply. "Oh, thanks! I promise, next week I'll get _everything._"

"You better," Smith said, only half-joking—but with a somewhat friendly glint in his eyes. He took the remaining two packages from Mobi, slipping them into his own unsuspicious black bag. "Where's my receipt?"

Mobi smiled broadly—as if the whole receipt thing was hilarious every single time it happened. The boy reached into his jean pockets, pulling out a little notebook, where two extremely authentic looking receipts were ripped out and handed to Smith. A little backup, Mobi called them, in case the peacekeepers got suspicious. The shop keepers were so busy; it was easy for them to forget selling stuff to individual people.

A silence followed that, where the two boys made their way out of the ally, Mobi slowing down so Smith could keep well up, and down the street—both unconsciously moving in the direction of the Justice Building, and the direction of the reaping. Finally, after several minutes of walking in silence—the only noise being the usual city hustle and bustle of District Eight.

"Your first reaping, huh?" Smith finally said, not feeling as awkward as he normally did talking to people. The Hunger Games were one universal topic everyone could talk about.

Mobi shook his head. "Second, actually. Is this your last?"

Smith chuckled softly, staring straight ahead. "No. I'm not _that_ old." Another pause, then. "How many tesserae do you have?"

"Thirty-Three."

Smith looked sharply at Mobi, surprised. He looked Mobi up and down, wondering for the first time is Mobi had a family—and about them. How many siblings did he have, if any? Was he the youngest? Oldest? An orphan?

"I'm the oldest of a big family," Mobi explained wearily, still looking straight ahead—seeming to gess what Smith was thinking. "How many tesserae do you have this year?"

"Twenty," Smith said, rather dryly. And he was an only child too. Lucky.

"Well," Mobi said not sounding surprised at Smith's number. "Good luck to you then."

Smith nodded, looking up slightly as Mobi began to move off to the side—towards a rather small clump of houses and apartments, "Same to you."

Smith entered the Justice Building about a half-an-hour later. He didn't stop since his last exchange with Mobi—and somewhere in the back of his mind; Smith vaguely wondered how the kid was going to make it in time unless he ran.

The Justice Building was no doubt the most beautiful building in District Eight by far—even the Mayor's house didn't rival it. It seemed to be made out of pure stone. A tough stone—a gray stone that lined the walls and kept it standing tall even in the most terrible of weather, or war. The District Eight Justice Building was one of the only buildings in all of Panem that was built over years ago by the first District Eighters and is still standing. Some of the other buildings, particularly in District Four and Two—had some to match its age, but the second revolution ended up destroying the rest.

And so the stone building of District Eight survived alone.

The sixteen year old made his way quickly across the room, recognizing several people from his school—but not bothering to give them a glance of acknowledgement. He didn't have friends to sit with anyway—so it's not like he was looking for anyone.

Smith squeezed his way through the crowds of people, families saying goodbye to each other as if they positively knew that it was their last time together—couples sharing quick pecks—friends joking around about how they positively knew karma had it in for them, and eventually he found his way to the section marked off for the sixteen year old boys and slipped inside. Not a minute too soon, this year's escort—a man with eyes the size of mangos—tripped his way up the stairs to the large platform that was adorned the stage—made (no doubt in a hurry) out of some flimsy wood laced with bedskirts to make the stage more presentable for the viewers back home. He tapped the microphone, making it _screech_ for some unknown reason—capturing everyone's attention at once. The people remaining in the shiny tiles of the building immediately scrambled off to their designated areas—the more daring giving a few nervous laughs to their friends.

The escort then went through the typical scripted speech—with the typical cheery voice and dramatically shown emotions—a smile seemingly plastered to his face the entire time. Smith only vaguely paid attention rather concentrating on everything _but_ a gaggle of girls not far from his spot on the opposite side of the rope, giggling and staring at him instead of listening to the speech.

_Just please, dear god, get this stupid reaping over with_, Smith thought in exasperation, looking at the stage with an almost pained look on his face as another bout of giggling started, ignited by the barely noticeable whisper of one of the girls. In answer to his prayers, the escort (who had long ago replaced the mayor's job of giving the opening speech after a particular drunk mayor made an example out of himself when his only daughter was reaped a few years back)—wrapped up his speech with a clearing of his throat and a perky revival of his smile.

"And with that said, let the reapings commence!"

There came a polite clap from scattered locations around the room. No doubt they would be doubly as loud on the television screens of the Capitol, after their techies got through with their rapid editing skills. The escort seemed encouraged at this, no matter how small, and beamed as he made his way over to the two large bowls that several thousand names. Two of which were going to be likely dead in a few weeks.

"Ladies first!" The man piped cheerily. The typical routine of the escort—go for the girls first, they were usually favored by the Capitol for some reason, probably because they could be put in a dress and look good while the male population usually could not. The escort, which Smith just caught his name (Valvious?) due to some whispering between two boys in front of him, reached into the bowl—feet arm disappearing instantly in the mass of little white slips. Valvious reached around a bit, taking his time—before retrieving a several names which clung to his rather Velcro like shirt. He flicked several off, the girl population and their families in the room tensing and holding their breath, before revealing one carefully selected in his hand.

Smiling, Valvious unfolded the slip of paper, flipped it upside down—then spoke with a cheery tone as he read, "Calico Spindle!"

There was a brief silence, Smith taking the time to think, _Typical District Eight name,_ before the crowd parted in the thirteen year old's section of the girl's area. Smith felt a pang of pity—thirteen. Rather young to be in the Hunger Games—he vaguely wondered how many tesserae she had, or if she had just run into a bit of bad luck.

The girl wasn't too small though, about the same height of most girls reaching the end of their growth spirts. She had these wide, doe-like eyes, making her look more like ten, then thirteen, but after a few seconds they narrowed—looking slightly determined. Smith would've been impressed, by her courage, if it weren't for the fact that her clenched fists were shaking. She quickly walked up from the near back of the room, not hesitating as she walked up the narrow steps and onto the platform to be greeted by the escort.

"Ah, Ms. Spindle!" The escort beamed, keeping the look of disappointment out of his face well (all escorts hope for victors from their own district). "Care to tell us who you are?"

Calico swallowed, hand moving to brush out a stray strand of brown hair from her face, before saying, "Why? You just read my name off that slip of paper, didn't you?"

Several people in the audience were startled into laughter—including the escort, who's smile widened when he realized that maybe things weren't so dim if at least one of the tributes was quick witted. Calico seemed comforted by the laughter and relaxed slightly, even smiling faintly despite the circumstances.

Valvious gave her an encouraging smile back—before asking another 'break-the-ice' question. "And how are you feeling right now?"

It was a daring move on the escorts part, seeing that Calico was good on replies—it was baiting her to say the obvious 'I'm in the fricken' Hunger Games now—how do you think I feel?', and no doubt the escort would be bumped down to escorting District Twelve, or worse (themselves to the gallows), if something rebelled outwards. Valvious seemed to realize his mistake though, smile going from genuine to slightly forced looking.

Calico seemed to pause, moving her hair again out of her face (seems to be a habit), before cautiously answering, "Well, shocked—of course. The games didn't seem like the sort of thing that could ever happen to, to someone like me."

Good answer. The escort's face shone in relief, giving the girl a clap on the back (where she stumbled at the sheer nervous force of it)— "Well, it's happened to you, Miss. Spindle! Congratulations!"

There was another scattered applause, cued by Valvious himself applauding the thirteen year old (who now looked more nervous than scared) before the short little introduction ceremony finished. Now. Now for the worrying part. The reaping of the boys. Smith wasn't too scared he would be reaped, the chances were still very small with his number, and he was confident he could last a while in the actual games—but still, there was always that small little voice in the back of your head repeating over and over again—

"_Mobi Tyranus!"_

Smith started at the sound of the escort's loud booming voice. He had zoned out for a few seconds—missing the drawing of the name. Who was it? It started with an M, he thought—Smith craned his neck to the side, trying to see around the crowd—

_Oh. No._

Disbelieving, Smith watched as this little thirteen year old boy marched his way up the long tiled path—fists as tightly clenched as Calico's had been, eyes staring straight ahead, quite bravely. Same brown hair, same fingers clever for stealing nearly his _entire_ family's food supply. Who provided nearly the entire food supply for the lower part of the district.

They would not survive without Mobi.

"I volunteer!"

It took a few seconds for Smith to realize that it was himself saying that.

"I volunteer!"

It took a few seconds for Smith to realize that he was pushing through the crowd of boys in front of him—jostling them roughly with his shoulder as he raced to the front of crowd—not caring—not thinking. Mobi was a honorable kid. He would feed Smith's family out of gratitude, until they died, or until he was reaped next year—was it really _him_ that Mobi was staring at with such wide, disbelieving eyes?

"I volunteer as tribute!"

* * *

><p><strong>Er, so yes. Mr. Pendulum up there was reaped. How I'm planning to go on this book is to place the next point of view where to last POV left off. More or less. xD So. I feel rather unsatisfied with Pendulum's tidbit—it was rather short, and Smith's was rather long. O_o It just took longer to explain Smith's—I hope you don't hate me owner of Mr. Pendulum!<strong>

**Anyways~ :3 Leave a review, please. I favor those who review frequently—as well as their tributes! What did you think? Too short? Too confusing? Too detailed? Am I just a plain terrible writer? D: Geez—you people make me so nervous! Well, I'm on a roll tonight! ;) More later…in the week, likely. Trying to type up a chapter and watch LOST does not go over well. Dang, that show is so addicting! **

**See ya'!  
>-White<strong>


	4. for so many of us

**Aw, you guys are awesome. ;) Within an hour or two—I had already had several responses to that last chapter—nearly all praise! There was this strange thing where I typed leg and arm while the escort was reaching into the bucket to draw Calico's name—I don't think the escorts are into switching their feet for legs these days… maybe dumpster diving is a new fad in the Capitol?**

**Who knows?**

**Anyways—despite school and tests and family and organizing events and a bunch of other random stuff, I managed to type up another chapter for you all. All I had to do was remove sleep from my schedule! X) Well, without further ado—ONWARD.**

* * *

><p><em><strong>:::::::::::::::::<strong>_

**Chapter Two.  
><strong>  
><em>"Some persons make promises for the pleasure of breaking them. Others simply don't know if they can keep them."<em>

**::::::::::::::::**

* * *

><p><strong>Onyx Emberle—<strong>_District One_

The justice building was simply alight with cheers. District One knew that this year was _their_ year. If they had won last year too—and the year before that—what was going to end the trend? Of course, it helped that the District had two stereotype, picture perfect careers representing them this year, with perfect score at the training school, both standing tall and proud. The escort beamed as well, a woman with bouncy neon-orange hair, and henna covering her entire body, obviously pleased that she had the dominant and successful victor district.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please give it up one more time for Kaira Tivil and Onyx Emberle—out District One tributes!" The escort shouted into the microphone, one arm raised high above her head, eyes closed tightly shut in exhilaration. And the crowd gave what she asked. Even the 'normal' kids—the ones not bent on becoming their own District's victor—cheer along with them. Why shouldn't they be excited? They would never have the smallest risk of going into the games, when hundreds of eager teenagers poured hours into training. There was even a failsafe system—who got to volunteer, and who didn't. Who was the backup, in case the chosen chickened out—there was even a backup for the backup!

Onyx smiled, he couldn't help it. The energy in the reaping room was almost overwhelming—adrenaline instantly flooding his veins. He was pumped—he was going to win. He grinned over at Kaira—the female tribute for District One—despite the fact that she was his enemy, despite the fact that she would have to die for his return home. Surprisingly, Kaira grinned back—obviously caught up in the excitement and glamour—she hadn't seemed like the type for fun back at the training camps. Suddenly caught up in the moment, as Cyrah (the escort) motioned for them to shake hands—Onyx grabbed Kaira's hand the second she made a move for his and thrust both of them high up in the air, both forced to swivel and face the crowd as their arms spread out. It was a champion's pose. Instead of a trophy held high in the air, it was their locked hands—_promising_ another victor from one, making the crowd whoop and holler even louder. The crowd believed in them, their screams of admiration told him that he would come back, he, Onyx, would bring them glory without lifting a figure.

And for a minute, Onyx let his stereotype District One eyes, blue all the way, close—and he believed them.

Eventually, Cyrah had ushered the two tributes backstage (there was one actually _built_ into the Justice Building, unlike in many other less-victor-like districts) without the usual company of peacekeepers (there was no need in District One!), as every tribute reaped wanted to play in District One. Cyrah walked a little ahead of the new duo—humming a little song in synch with the clips of her heels. Onyx and Kaira walked at a bit of a slower pace behind her, Onyx unable to keep a light spring out of his step.

"What was that for?" Kaira laughed, obviously still hyped up from the sheer power of the crowd's roars.

"What was _what_ for?" Onyx replied, seriously not knowing, in too good a mood to put on his first mask of hostility.

Kaira huffed—slipping a purple hair-band off her wrist and curling her waist length, platinum blond hair up into a crisp pony-tail, seemingly wanting to do more action then walk down a hallway—sighing exasperatedly. "You know," she made a little motion with her hand—curling it into a fist and pumping it in the air with a mock playfulness. "_That_. You just, quite idiotically, presented us almost like a team."

"Oh," The thought honestly hadn't occurred to him. He was too pumped to think about strategy—though it did seem like a kind of mind game Onyx would play. The eighteen year old thought a moment, choosing his words and angle carefully. Finally, he gave a sly smile—giving her a side glance out of the corner of his eye, "Well, we _are_ a team right? Allies?"

"We career districts always are allies," Kaira replied with a slight edge of hot-headedness for some reason, crossing her arms and staring straight ahead indignantly.

"Yeah," Onyx agreed, pressing forward more—giving her one or two quick glances with sharp turns of his head. "But we're District One, right? We're superior to the rest—we're like… the King and Queen of this game, the rest, even the other careers—are our mere servants."

"'When the King and Queen were found dead,'" the girl closed her eyes and lifted her head almost loftily, sounding as if she were reciting this from a book, "'it wasn't until after much hard work that the maid was found to be guilty of their assassination.'"

Onyx paused, his whole body too—giving her a full up and down glance as if he were assessing her for the first time. In reality, as Kaira gave him a smug look with her arms crossed, he was trying to come up with the last retort (to stay on top of course!). "Well," he said slowly, buying him a few more seconds of time, "We're much smarter than the average King and Queen—right?"

This made the opposing player to this banter pause, giving him an odd look. Onyx started, instantly trying to assess what it was. Fear? Anger? Pity? Contempt? Unfortunately for him, as quick as the emotion appeared—it was gone, replaced by a smooth, sweet smile. "Of course," Kaira replied smoothly, side stepping around him with her arms folded behind her back. Her long golden hair swished behind her, (Onyx couldn't help but stare) and with a final, approving, nod—Kaira slipped into the room behind them and let the door close with a small _click_.

Shaking his head, not sure yet whether he was more amused or confused—Onyx smiled, letting himself remember for a moment what it felt like to have the crowd cheering for you, calling you name—and instantly a tingling rush spread throughout his body. The tribute made his way a few more feet down the hallway before pausing at the door he knew to be his 'Good-Bye' room, where all his friends and family would later be coming to see him, or already be waiting inside. He paused right outside the door, fingers flexing and hovering right over the brass doorknob, stopped by a faint '_ticking_ sound.

Peering upwards, Onyx could just make out the tip of a clock. A gold one—the inside etched with silver and glass—it's tiny second hand slowly clicking by with faint chimes, an everlasting reminder on how precious time was, and how fast it went by. Precisely _1:00_ in the afternoon, the seconds lost somewhere between the five second and fifteen—Onyx letting a smile play at his lips for the occasion. One hour from now, he would be a different man—he was leaving his life in District One behind, his friends, his family—everything.

But he would be coming back.

Onyx was sure of it.

* * *

><p><strong>Cypress Fawn<strong>—_District Seven_

_1:00._

Cypress swallowed hard, arms supported on her knees as her hand locked together in what suspiciously looked like a classic prayer position. Her head was bent forward, seeming to take great fascination in what her fingers looked like folded around one another. She looked up only once—and that was for the time, the only sound in the spacious room being the gentle clicking of the clock, which seemed to grow with intensity and annoyance by the second.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She tried to block out the sound by counting up to fifty—first by twos, then by fives, and tens. Then she tried threes before thoroughly confusing herself and not doing anything to help with the rapid clicking.

_I have fifty-nine seconds left in District Seven. _

A pause.

_Side a miracle—I won't be coming back._

Another pause.

_Side a miracle—I won't ever see my family again._

Silence.

Despite herself, Cypress felt her eyes begin to sting. How many tesserae had she had? What where the odds that it had to be _her_ this year. Why not someone else, why not Ella from the merchants, or Rayne from her science class? Why _her, _why did fate decide to destroy all hope from her life with a single slip of paper?

Instantly after thinking that—Cypress felt a wave of guilt wash slowly over her, rising from a knot in her stomach till it enveloped her quickly—from her toes to the tips of wavy brown hair. Her classmates, and her friends—they were people too. Just because she had been reaped didn't mean she had to wish her own terrible, completely and utterly terrible, fate on them. Then again—_I can wish anything I want on them, I'm going to be dead in a few weeks anyways, _the girl thought bitterly, trying anything right now to prevent herself from bursting into tears and attacking the nearest peacekeeper.

_Creak._

The plain wooden door in front of the girl slowly swung open—Cypress instantly jerking her head up and sitting up straight—eyes anxiously scanning the door, bright with beginnings of harshly fought back. Her hands anxiously folded in her lap, right over her pale pink dress, and Cypress swallowed once to make sure her voice was steady before whoever it was first came to see her. She was prepared for anyone, or so she thought, her friends—her step-mother, the peacekeepers—anyone. No one would remember her last as bawling through their last hour.

But it's one thing to say something, another to do—even the toughest of the tributes, the ones reaped, not volunteered—often choked back sobs.

"_Dad?"_

Seeing him look so old, so weary, so sad as he peered into the room—pale blue eyes flickering around the inside of the room with the wood-paneled walls—was almost too much to bear. He looked so much _older_ aged twenty years since the time they had walked together to the reaping, side by side with casual conversation, casual laughs. Finally, upon hearing his given name by his only daughter, the old man's eyes settled on the seventeen year old, sitting in on the only piece of furniture in the room: a simple white couch.

His only daughter in a pale pink dress—all alone—now forever alone.

"_Dad!"_

Cypress ran forward, brown hair floating upwards by the sheer speed at which she moved—nearly tripping on her dress several times by not taking notice thanks to Fate's kind eyes. Seeing what was coming, the man took a step forward to meet her, arms outstretched. They met in a hug, one that seemed not to last long enough, yet forever at the same time. Finally, when they separated—neither said anything for a full minute, merely staring at the other (Cypress with wide, searching eyes—her father with tired, sad ones), drinking in one another's face as they knew the chances of seeing the same one in the face were too small.

Far too small.

Finally, as if only just realizing that they had only minutes left before the peacekeepers dragged them apart (no more than ten minutes per member or the family!) Cypress broke the silence with a quiet, "Where's Danneel? And Sparrow?" Her step mom, and her brother of course. They might've decided to come in one at a time—but Cypress somehow doubted it, Danneel wasn't much of a mushy person, and might've decided to stay away entirely. Sparrow, of course, would be at school—Pre-K would be the only one open as to harbor the babies (so they wouldn't bother the camera and the Capitol back home with unnecessary noise!), but somehow, Cypress had hoped…

Her father pursed his lips together, something he had always done when breaking bad, or sensitive news—the same face he had used when he had announced he was getting remarried. "Danneel," he said slowly, keeping her eyes locked with his the whole time, "got sick this morning. A stomach bug. You wouldn't have known, leaving early for your work today—but she decided to stay home from the reapings, and the Peacekeepers let her. They're rather friendly to us, and they usually let sick people stay home… she had no idea you'd be reaped, Cypress, otherwise she would've come—I know she would have—"

"No, no, I get it," Cypress interrupted, sensing that he was about to go through some long explanation and looked off to the side, strangely fighting the tears again, head moving in quick jerks. She sighed, turning back to her father with a small, sad, smile, breathily saying, "It's not like I would know what to say to her anyways."

Her father flinched, but decided to ignore the comment—not having enough time to decide it good or bad. Blinking rapidly, he then said, "Well, Sparrow's at the school—you knew that, right?"

Cypress nodded, wordlessly—again averting her gaze and staring at the bleak, wooden walls.

Anxiously, her father took the girl by her shoulders—forcing her to look at him. Slowly, each word rolling off his tongue with a deliberate force, he said quietly, "Cypress—you know I love you, right?"

The new tribute reached out wrapping her tan arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest, bright green eyes just barely poking out from between his shoulder and arm. Voice muffled by his striped red and white shirt and his chest, Cypress whispered, "I love you too, Dad."

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah, yeah. This was so much shorter! There wasn't much to write, I got everything I wanted to say done… but I didn't just want to add a bunch of filler just to get another hundred or two words in. D: There's not much to write about the good-byes anyways. I kinda' stopped abruptly on Cypress's 'cause I didn't want hers to so greatly outpace Onyx's (he gets lots of limelight later, so I didn't want him to shine too much now) and I knew if I kept on going I wouldn't be able to stop- just like Smith's.<strong>

**D: Psh. In less complex words: They failed. I can't seem to make them any better though, no matter how much a tweak it. I promise next… or the next, **_**next**_** chapter will be better. (The next one is going to be difficult). **

**Anyways, whadda' think of Cypress, Onyx, and Kaira's? Likeable? Bland? Stereotypical? Brothers/Sisters from anotha' motha'? Anymore fail spelling mistakes? (Psh. Armleg… xD) Leave a review! Or PM if it's still not working for some of you!**

**Peace,  
>-White! <strong>


	5. ANOTHER

**Sup', peeps. Long time no chapter, eh?**

**I feel like I'm dropping this huge PSYCH!- bomb, but as you've probably figured out from the word count, this is _NOT_ a new chapter. Sad, I know.**

**Good News: I have my computer back! -happy dance-**

**Bad News: I've been getting home at 9:00 each night this past week, and this will continue up until this weekend. :P This means I have NO time to write. Well, that's actually a lie- 'cause all I would have to do is remove sleep from my scheduel and I could do it... ****But based on last chapter's quality- I'm not keen on trying that again. PLus, me gusta dormir. ****After these tests and swim meets and orchestra concerts and random stuff are done- YOU WILL HAVE YOUR EXTENDED CHAPTERS. MULTIPLE ONES IF I HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT. :3 All in rapid short periods of time. **

**Summery: I have not given up on this story! No way! You'll see me by the end of the week- on my code of honor. Even****if I have to stay up till' 11:59 on Saturday, you WILL have a chapter. **

**:3**

**So. You will see my awesome story-alerts popup in your emails soon. VERY SOON...ISH. Hopefully sooner than 11:59 at night on Saturday Central Time.**

**Adios, **

_-White_


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